Flesh and Blood
by gilenagile
Summary: My response to a Cape Have Writer's Group challenge. A M/L ghost story in 1638 words. (OK, maybe I cheated a little.)


**Disclaimer**: Cameron and Eglee own Dark Angel; no copyright infringement intended.  
**Title**: Flesh and Blood  
**Author**: gilenagile  
**Episode Reference**: Camera  
**Rating**: PG-13

Flesh and Blood.

Logan sat at the table by the window, nursing his glass of wine. The same glass he had poured before Max had left for Snuffy's funeral service. He glanced at his Rolex. Four hours since she had left, mourning a man she barely knew, while he sat here and couldn't seem to feel anything for a man he had known all his life.

What should he feel--he closed his eyes in an effort to find the proper answer--for the man who had given him this very bottle of wine at his college graduation party. Now _there_ was a positive side to his uncle; he had always been very generous to his only nephew. There had been the car keys, the king size pack of condoms, and the manly pat on his back at his sixteenth birthday party; the name of a good divorce lawyer at his engagement party; and what about the well thumbed Rolodex cards with names and numbers of potential mistresses at his wedding reception. 

And of course the clincher: a lifetime supply of guilt being gift wrapped and ready for presentation at Jonas's funeral. Not that Logan had actually committed patricide--he supposed having Jonas listed as guardian on every official form for almost as far back in his childhood as he could remember should justify the term—no, he had just set in motion the chain of events leading to his uncle's violent and bloody death. He should definitely be feeling something for the man: his surrogate parent, his father's brother. The lying, murdering son-of-a-bitch.

He stared into the darkness outside the penthouse windows, almost welcoming the feeling of dread in the pit of his stomach the towering void induced; welcoming feeling anything at all. Well, almost anything. He was unprepared for the intense feeling the reflection of a figure sitting calmly at the other side of his dining table was invoking. Ice-cold adrenaline pumped through his body.

The man's features were blurred in the blackness of the window, but Logan didn't need to turn around to know the identity of the unexpected visitor. _Crunch._ The smell of celery exploded into the air, tinged with that of tomato juice and stoli, all laced with the dead aroma of a fine Cuban cigar.

"For God's sake sit up and stop moping Junior. You spend too much time thinking. Didn't I always tell you that? It's unmanly, that's what it is." Jonas slurped a mouthful of Bloody Mary. "Moping's for old women and whimps, not for real men; not for a Cale." A deep puffing and a cloud of tobacco smoke seemed to fill the silent room. That and something less familiar, but unmistakable; the smell of wet dog. Logan's curiosity got the better of his bone numbing terror and he turned to look. 

"Staring with your mouth open is unmanly also."

"You've got a dog . . . a wet dog."

"Well what do you expect? It's always raining in this fucking city. Should have moved to Florida long ago. Would have retired there in a few years if I could have sold Margo on the idea. Still, selling Margo on an idea always cost me plenty. Being killed in a hail of bullets saved me a packet." Another cloud of smoke preceded Jonas's tentative question. "How's the old bat doing?"

"She's still pretty shaky." Though not as shaky as his voice Logan discovered.

"She'll be fine. I know she's not a Cale by blood, but Margo's a chip off the old block." Judging by his volubility, the drink clamped in his large hand was not Jonas's first alcoholic beverage of the afterlife. "She was always a spitfire. You should have seen her when she was young—all attitude. _And_ she had an ass to match. One look at that ass and it was love at first sight."

"You married her for her ass?" Somehow, to his complete amazement, Logan found himself being drawn into the conversation with his deceased uncle.

"Hell yes. It was worth twenty-five and a half million dollars. So, she's taking it hard?"

"Really devastated."

"Did she call the insurance company yet?"

"On the way home from the morgue."

"What a woman. I would have married her for twenty mil."

A grunt from the enormous black lab at the ghost's feet brought Logan back to his senses. "What are you doing with a dog? You never liked animals." Not unless he had just shot them or  . . . a light dawned. "He's your hunting dog."

Jonas laughed. Death was doing wonders for his personality. "Trump a hunting dog—that's a hoot." He hooted. Logan found himself smiling. His uncle should have tried dying years ago.   

The dog looked reproachful. Logan sobered. "He's not dead, is he?"

"Of course he's dead." This time it was Jonas's turn to grunt. "I always said all that writing nonsense would turn your brains to mush, didn't I." He looked at Trump and then at Logan. "What a waste."

"So, he was your dog?"

"Long time ago." The elderly man took another swig of his drink. "My father—your grandfather—bought him for me as a hunting dog when I was a boy, but we couldn't train him. He could retrieve like a champ, but he enjoyed himself too much. By the time he gave up the game all the bounding around and head shaking made it inedible." Trump gave a repentant whine and lowered his head to the floor.

"You kept him as a pet?"

"A pet? My father had no time for useless animals like your mother was so fond of having rampaging around the house, before . . . before the accident." He rolled the cigar in tobacco stained fingers. "He gave the dog to our gamekeeper to deal with." A black head nudged the man's hand, which responded automatically with a rub behind the ear. "I gave the gamekeeper every penny your father had saved in his piggy bank to keep him for me. Used to sneak out of the cabin on hunting weekends and visit with him." Jonas looked out the wall of glass at something very far away. "Only time I defied the old man. All over a silly dog. Even buried him on the cabin grounds--Cale property--when he died." He examined the drink in his hand. "Almost like some lily, liberal assed thing you'd do Junior." Jonas raised his narrow eyes to meet his nephew's. "You know Logan, you and I are a lot alike. We want something, we do what we have to do to get it."  

Logan shivered. He knew that look. His uncle was going in for the kill.

"I always wanted you to run the company, Junior."

"What about Bennett?"

"Bennett's an idiot, but you've got the brains and the Cale killer instinct. The bottom line boy, that's what matters to a Cale—don't deny it."

"I'm nothing like you."

"Only difference is you're breathing. I've seen you go after a story with a ruthlessness that would make your grandfather proud to call you a Cale. Now, don't go getting in a huff and don't tell me you wouldn't do whatever it takes. You never put a source in jeopardy? Maybe some of them lost jobs on account of talking to you, maybe some lost a lot more. Hell, your latest piece of journalism helped get me killed—your own flesh and blood." Jonas sat back, puffing on the Montecristo. "The bottom line, Junior. That's what it's all about. For you. For me. We're no different."

"Yes we are.  Our bottom lines are."

"Makes no difference in the long run. You see, the hunt's the thing. That, and a good stoli, or an old vintage; some of life's comforts—watching the peasants out your window when I came in, weren't you; some friends to shoot the breeze with—hope they all rot in hell the backstabbing bastards; and some decent pussy on the side." He flicked some ash on the wooden floor. "How is Max doing these days?"

Logan, heart pounding, reached across the table.  He would have leapt up and swung at the dead man if he could.  Sweat beaded on his forehead and his hands reached for . . . nothing. His arms hit the table top as he listened to the sound of Jonas's laughter receding into the air. Laughter, and the pitter-patter of paws on hard wood flooring.

"You OK?"

"Max!" Quickly he pulled his arms back. "I'm fine."

"You look . . . strange."

Strange?  What was strange?  Having a conversation with his dead uncle and his dead dog? "I'm fine." She walked around the table and touched his damp forehead with her hand. "Let's go up to the cabin tomorrow." 

"What? You all right? Aren't you too busy to waste time on that?  Why?"

"Just to piddle."

"Piddle?"

"You know, mess around. Do nothing."

"I know, but you don't piddle Logan."

"OK, I want to visit a grave."

"They're burying your uncle up at the cabin?"

"No. His dog's grave. You'll come with me?"

Max looked at him warily. "I think I should definitely come with you."

"You know there's no one I'd rather not piddle around with, don't you Max?" She gave him one of her earth shattering, angelic smiles. A smile he could feel all the way to his toes. The bottom line—what really mattered, more than his uncle would ever know.

He turned to the window and found himself wishing, for the first time in his life, that he and his uncle had something in common—for his uncle's sake; something that Jonas, in his own perverted and lonely world, may have glimpsed a long time ago. Something more important than flesh and blood.


End file.
